


Dare

by aldiara



Category: Alles was zaehlt
Genre: Alles was zählt - Freeform, Angst, M/M, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-02
Updated: 2010-10-02
Packaged: 2017-10-12 08:47:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/123068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aldiara/pseuds/aldiara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Having divined that there is more to Deniz Öztürk than meets the eye, Marc sets out to discover what.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dare

**Author's Note:**

> Second in the Share-Dare-Care threesome arc.

Until Roman stepped back into his life – or to be fair, Marc thinks wryly, until _he_ stepped back into _Roman's_ life and promptly proceeded to royally muck it up, without even meaning to – spontaneity was not a big part of his life. He's learned early on that to be reckless rarely pays off. Before he returned to Essen, his life was made up of calculable risks and steady routines that were as carefully choreographed as the ice shows that dominate his working life.

He didn't take risks. Risks are dangerous. Risks leave you desolate and bankrupt, staring blankly at the empty balance after you've cleared your heart's account on some beautiful, foolish gamble.

Yeah, that was then. Before he came back and found himself swept away on a sudden flood of dangerous games; before he set his foot on paths he never thought he'd tread.

Being mad enough to get involved with Roman Wild again was one thing. Realising that Roman wasn't a one-person deal and trying to embrace that fact is a daily lesson that he doesn't have any notes or a course book for.

At first Marc thought it was a mere indulgence. Roman's never dealt well with pressure, so let him have his cake and eat it too, at least for a little while. Let him keep his pretty boytoy until he realises which relationship can offer lasting substance, as he inevitably will; and if until then Marc gets to enjoy the considerable benefits of said boytoy's body too, so much the better, right? He's never held any particular aspirations to altruism.

Except he's had to realise that there is more at work here than he thought. More than misplaced loyalty or Roman's customary reluctance to let go; more than Deniz' soulful puppy eyes, the eager flexibility of his long limbs or the fact that he deep-throats more skilfully than a rentboy.

There have been hints from the beginning, little things that Marc refused to see. The no-nonsense tone Deniz can suddenly take when Roman is in one of his blue funks, and how Roman reacts to it and pulls his head out of his arse. The way they can pass a phone, the remote, the butter, without even looking up, as if they knew already where their hands would meet. As if there was no question of missing. The secret smiles they exchange, and that thing they do when Deniz's hand curves around Roman's nape and their foreheads touch in something resembling benediction; that, and the bloody noserubs. The first time Marc saw one – playful, laughing, thinking themselves unobserved in a casual gesture of affection – Marc froze in his tracks, stymied at the remembrance of the one time Roman offered that gesture to _him_. The belated realisation that it wasn't meant for him at all, that he was playing stand-in without knowing it, was surprisingly hurtful, but not as sobering as the sudden knowledge that he was not here to bide his time. It was not that simple. He glimpsed in that second's kittenish bump of nose to nose that there is more at play here -- that Roman meant it when he said he couldn't choose.

And so, having divined that there is more to Deniz Öztürk than meets the eye, Marc set out to discover what.

As usual between them, things begin with Roman. As much as their small, private gestures sting, it's nearly impossible not to be charmed by them: that habit Deniz has of picking Roman up like he weighs nothing, setting them both off into giggles like schoolboys; the way he casually flops on top of him, makes grand gestures or mercilessly teases Roman about his age until he gets thwapped. Roman looks happy and carefree with him, and Deniz's face is an open book: he shines with love, and it's impossible not to appreciate him for that, for how he makes Roman glow alone. No schoolboy adoration this, no puppy crush; no flattered indulgence on Roman's part.

Curious.

Fitting himself inside that seamless picture has been hard. Marc knows he has his place with Roman, knows himself treasured enough this time to not feel truly threatened; but he's felt the keen edge of deliberation in everything Deniz does with regard to him. He's done a thing or three for love in his life that he wasn't happy to do, has lived with situations less than ideal just to keep someone happy. That Deniz would do this for Roman is something Marc didn't think about much at first, not until he put his mind to paying attention, and then the signs were everywhere: a brittle smile, a desolate look, a grip too tight, too desperate, too scared of losing Roman.

It comes as no small shock to Marc to realise this worries him not just for Roman's sake alone, but it's not until late one night when he pads into the kitchen to fetch a drink of water and finds Deniz quietly and fiercely crying on the couch that he realises just how much of a problem it is.

Deniz blows him off, of course, shakes off his concern and the hand he offers, mutters some excuse about how it's nothing, work, whatever, and flees back to his room. Marc is left standing in his boxers, frowning and knowing something has to change.

The North Rhine-Westphalians are coming up and Roman is stressed beyond capacity, coaching Katja through her insanely difficult program and fighting with her mother over the choreography. He's frazzled and moody no matter how much Marc talks him through the logistics, no matter how much Deniz silently holds him, stroking his hair.

It doesn't help that neither of them can join him in Düsseldorf. Deniz has a mad schedule of time-sensitive photo shoots, and Marc's stuck in the difficult preliminary stages of his new ice show, tied down in meetings and rink time every day.

Roman gripes at them about it, but it's mostly good-natured, and on the morning he sets off for Düsseldorf, he's in a good mood, nervous but confident. Marc kisses him and murmurs, _"Bonne chance,"_ at which Deniz rolls his eyes before hauling Roman close and telling him fiercely, "You'll rock this thing."

Roman smiles at them both, then looks from one to the other, and his smile slips just a tiny shade into worry. “You two will be alright, yes? You won't kill each other while I'm gone?"

"If he doesn't leave his socks lying around," Marc deadpans, at the same time Deniz scoffs, "If he doesn't make me eat escargot."

They exchange a surprised look and Roman bursts out laughing. They join in, and Marc catches himself thinking this is a good thing: that if he has to be gone by the time Roman gets back, at least the last thing he'll remember is the three of them laughing.

  
Deniz comes home exhausted that night, having been dragged from one shooting location to another all day long. He tosses his bag into a corner the same way he tosses Marc a "Hello."

Marc waves at him with the spatula. "Hungry?"

"Mhm."

"I made pizza." He gestures towards the oven, where the rich aroma of cooked bacon mingles with the scents of oregano and garlic.

Deniz stares at him as if he just declared he made fried cat. "You _made_ pizza? What's wrong with ordering?"

Marc smiles at his disdain. "You'll like this better, trust me."

"Hmph," Deniz grumbles, disbelieving, but Marc is right, of course. Deniz's eyes widen at the first bite and he helps himself to another slice before he's finished with the first. Marc grins at him, cocking a questioning brow, and Deniz rolls his eyes but smiles a little.

"Yeah, fine, whatever," he concedes between two bites. "It's pretty good."

There's not much talk, other than that. Marc mentions when the skating will be on telly tomorrow and Deniz shoots him a nearly affronted look and says he _knows_. Sure they can watch together. "I'll bring popcorn," Deniz says sarcastically and Marc winces a little, knowing he'll never live that one down. Deniz dashes from the table with his cheeks still full of pizza, making for the bathroom. Marc cleans up the dishes in silence, making up his mind to be daring.

  
When Deniz steps out of the shower, Marc is there, towel in hand, to notice that Deniz is flushed and red-eyed with more than steam. He stiffens almost imperceptibly as soon as he sees Marc, then cocks a sarcastic brow. "What is it with you and pouncing people just out of the shower?" he demands, reaching for the towel. Marc hands it to him but doesn't let go, with the result that Deniz is involuntarily jerked towards him, almost slipping on the smooth floor until he steadies himself against Marc's shoulders.

He sneers, and Marc smiles, caught off-guard by just how lovely he is, skin gleaming with water and dark eyes glaring defiance.

"I don't suppose you'd believe me if I said I was just coming in to brush my teeth," he murmurs in a low voice, transferring his steadying grip from Deniz's arm to his jaw, tilting his chin up for a kiss.

Deniz backs off immediately. Water droplets from his wet hair hit Marc's face as he shakes his head. "Not without Roman," he says firmly. Normally that would be it, Marc would let it go and retreat to his room or the couch with a book, but not this time. Not with that nagging feeling in his stomach that there are things he'll never share in, not with the knowledge that somehow this smug young Adonis and Roman have squeezed more of a history into two brief, aborted, messy relationships than Marc and Roman did in two years of patient, steady commitment. Not with the recognition that there is no real way to Roman's heart unless he learns how to love this beautiful, defiant, spitfire boy, this enigma of volatility and tenderness.

Not with the knowledge that loving Deniz might not be as hard as he feared.

So instead, he holds on, his hand sliding on slippery skin when Deniz tries to pull away, and suddenly they're grappling, the towel long dropped to the ground and the air between them hot and moist with more than lingering mist. Marc has more experience, and slightly more bulk, but Deniz is young and fast and has a good inch of height on him, and there is no easy winner. They end up slipping against the wall next to the toiletries cabinet, arms tangled and chests heaving.

"What do you want?" Deniz growls at him.

"I know what you're doing," Marc says, heart pounding in his chest. He sees the flicker of reaction in Deniz's face, the shadow of panic before Deniz pulls the mask of determination back over his features. Marc shakes his head, surprised by a sudden wash of sorrow for Deniz's pain, for this stupid, misplaced courage.

"It's not going to work that way," he says. The tile is cold against his back, a sobering contrast to the heady closeness of Deniz' hot and hostile skin.

"Seems to be working just fine so far," Deniz grates out, and Marc has to remind himself how important this is, how desperately crucial that he make a difference here. He shakes his head.

"He'll notice, Deniz," he replies, willing calm into his voice although he's feeling anything but calm. "How do you think it'll make him feel that you're making yourself unhappy for him? He'll _notice_ ," he reaffirms, and is surprised by Deniz's sudden burst of laughter, bitter and humourless.

"How would you know? He hasn't noticed so far."

"Because I know him," Marc says simply. He sees the shift from bitterness to actual rage a split second before Deniz slams him back into the tiles hard enough to leave bruises.

"You don't know shit," Deniz spits at him, his breath hot and desperate on Marc's face. "If you know him so well, then where were you when anything that mattered happened to him the last ten years? When he was going through shit over his botched competitions, when all his friends were being total losers and shut him out? When _I_ was being a total dick, why didn't you show up then? You could've had him, you know. I wouldn't even have cared. Why did you have to show up when we… when we…"

He pauses, breath hitching in his throat, and Marc knows better than to say anything when Deniz's hands bunch in his t-shirt.

"The scar on his knee," Deniz hisses into his shoulder. "Do you know it? Do you even know where it's from?"

Of course he knows. He's traced it with his tongue, the thick, ugly ridge of it. He remembers Roman's voice on the phone, so cheerful, _oh no, nothing serious. Just a couple of idiot kids. You know, shit happens. Sure, drop by any time, but you don't have to, really. I'll be fine._ Roman, ever the accomplished liar. He should have known. He didn't drop by, stayed in Paris, chose to believe Roman. The more fool him.

Deniz pounces on it as it he knew, as if he read Marc's thoughts. "You weren't there," he growls, his hands hard and painful as they clutch Marc's shoulders. "I was there – I failed, totally fucked up, just a stupid, fucking kid, but dude, I was _there_. I beat up the fuckers who did it to him. I held him when he thought he'd never skate again. _Where the fuck were you?_ What do you know about him at all, about us? What gives you the right..."

...and then he’s crying, hot, gushing tears that soak through the thin cotton of Marc's t-shirt, and it's all Marc can do to hold him, to cling to those broad, shaking shoulders in turn.

"You don't know what I've been through to get him back," Deniz chokes out, "you don't have a fucking, _fucking_ clue, the things I'd do to keep him, fuck you."

 _Oh Kleiner, I do._ It's not escaped him how Deniz's smile has been just a hint too bright lately, how he throws himself into their love-making as if there's a medal to be won for dedication.

"Deniz," Marc is saying, hears himself repeating stupidly, "Deniz, listen, it's not, it's not like that-"

"How else!" Deniz yells at him, shoving him back against the hard bathroom tile. "What else is it like if you swan in here ten years later and casually fuck up his life, _our_ lives, _screw you, we were happy_."

"So was I!" Marc shouts back, palms flat against the temptingly perfect curves of his model shoulders, swinging them around so it's Deniz who's pinned against the wall instead of him. "Do you think I came here looking for this? Do you really think…" He stops himself, breathing hard. It's no good, they’ve had this conversation before.

"Deniz," he says, hearing how pleading he sounds and not caring, "Look, we said we'd try this, for him. If you're like this…"

"Like what," Deniz grits out between a frozen smile, his lips suddenly close to Marc's and the heat of him a palpable reality against Marc's hips. "Am I not trying hard enough, Marc? Isn't it good enough when I suck you? When I shout your name when you fuck me, don't you think it's _convincing_?"

His knee is between Marc's thighs and Marc can feel himself react, can't help it, really, who could? If Roman were here, he'd probably give in, would just let them all tumble into a tangled heap of limbs and desire in the master bedroom, but this is about more than that, and the wetness on Deniz's cheeks, the red of his swollen lips convinces him of that. Instead of thrusting his hips forward, he brings his hands up, frames the sharp cheekbones of Deniz's face with desperate fingers.

"Deniz," he says softly and doesn't even bother to keep the pleading note out of his voice, "don't you care about me at all? Don't you think you could?"

Deniz freezes, naked and trapped, and stares at him with all the frantic mistrust of a caged animal. Whatever he expected, it wasn't this.

"I'll go," Marc says, and wonders how on earth he's managing to keep his voice steady even as his heart cringes. "If that's the only thing that works, I'll go, I want you to know that. But-"

"Yeah, right. So you can blame me and he'll come running after you."

He shakes his head impatiently. "I'll say it's not working for me, you'll be fine. But Deniz... I'm hoping there's another way. That we can work through this somehow."

 _Because I like you, I do, and the only way this can work out is if you can find it in you to like me back._

Deniz's tongue darts out, licking his lip. His expression has shifted slightly, from hostile curiosity into something Marc can't place.

"Anything for him, huh?" he asks, without rancour for a change, almost wryly, and Marc immediately shakes his head.

"No," he says, mouth gone dry, knowing this has gone so very far beyond a safe risk, and not particularly caring. "No, not just for him."

Deniz blinks, then swallows.

"Marc…" he says, voice cracking, and drawn by that ragged uncertainty that matches his own, Marc does move forward then, against those tempting lips, throwing caution to the wind. He curls his hands around Deniz's bare hipbones and licks the protest off his mouth before it can air.

But the protest doesn't come.

Marc normally can't help just diving in, getting the most out of that sinful mouth before Deniz subtly evades him as he usually does; but this time he places small kisses along that tempting lower lip in something like entreaty, swipes his tongue against the seam begging entry. The moment stretches, Deniz stiff and unresponsive under his hands, his lips, until something changes. There's a gust of breath against Marc's mouth, a hissed sigh of _"Fuck,"_ and then Deniz's mouth opens, long past the point where he'd normally already have pulled away. His lips part, his tongue meets Marc's, and Marc can sense resistance seeping out of him with the kiss and feels a quiet sort of elation when Deniz's hands come up to curl around his neck.

He couldn't say what's different this time, but something is: there's something desperate and raggedly honest about the way hands meet skin, something much less graceful than when Roman's there to fill the blanks, but much more genuine for that. When Deniz's mouth paints a trail down the length of his torso, more biting than kissing, Marc gets it; when he sucks Deniz down deep and tastes fear and conflicted love on him, there is no filter, no veneer of sacrifice. It's clumsy and awkward and more violent than he usually likes, but there's an edge of truth to Deniz's ragged cry of release this time, a hint of blunt tenderness that Marc isn't used to feeling, not for him.

Marc doesn't sleep in their room. Not unless it's late and they're all giggly and drunk, and even then there's usually some hour after midnight where he slinks off to his own room like a mangy wolf driven from a lair of companionable puppies. He's tried, a couple of times, to re-enact the way Roman and he used to sleep, with him spooned tightly about Roman's curled form, but it doesn't work anymore; the dynamics have changed. Roman and Deniz seem to have no established sleep pattern. Sometimes it's Deniz nuzzling up underneath Roman's chin, making himself much smaller than he actually is, one long leg casually thrown over Roman's hips; sometimes it’s Roman fit neatly against the long line of Deniz's back, one arm wrapped around his chest; sometimes they sprawl every which way, barely touching unless you pay attention to things like toes or fingertips, coyly brushing even in deep sleep, saying, _hello, I know you._ Either way, there's rarely room for a third person the way there is when they're conscious and hot with desire.

So it's Marc's own bed that he wakes up in, with the sunlight piercing into his eyes; they forgot to close the blinds. He feels a little shocked and sorer than he remembers being in a long time. His left arm feels numb. It's sprawled wide and Deniz's dark head is cushioned against it, face tucked down. Craning his neck, Marc can just about make out the shadow of his dark lashes, the smattering of freckles high on his cheeks, the ones you can only see when you're close enough to kiss. Their feet are tangled and a little sweaty, which should really feel gross. Marc finds he doesn't mind. He smiles and drops a kiss on the top of Deniz's head.

He can almost sense the moment when Deniz's body shifts from languid unconsciousness to waking. Just a second of smooth muscles bunching, shifting, and then, without looking at him, Deniz rolls over and up, leaning over to steal Marc's bathrobe.

Marc stills him with a hand on his back, trailing the smooth ridges of his spine. His back is perfectly symmetrical, smooth skin, broad shoulders narrowing southwards into a slim waist and narrow hips. He's unfairly beautiful.

"Deniz," he says, hearing the rich tones of sleep still trapped in his voice, and waits until Deniz gathers his courage enough to turn and look at him. "Are we…" he clears his throat, "are we okay?"

"No."

He closes his eyes, wondering why he should be surprised at this. Why he should be hurt.

What's more surprising is the shy brush of fingers on his cheek, nothing so bold as fingertips, just the back of Deniz's hand, knuckles awkwardly brushing his jaw.

"I think," Deniz's voice comes hesitantly through his closed eyelids. "I mean. I think we could be. Maybe."

Marc keeps his eyes closed and his smile in check until Deniz's weight has lifted off the mattress; until the soft pad of his bare feet has left the room.

Maybe is good enough. Maybe's a risk that could be worth taking.


End file.
